


The Fly

by paceisthetrick



Series: Drabbles for Shells [16]
Category: No Night is Too Long (2002)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paceisthetrick/pseuds/paceisthetrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fly

Ivo was rarely consoling. He seemed to feel it was his personal duty to daily deflate my ego as if concerned it might otherwise grow out of control. Determined not to be squashed by him, I would look anxiously for opportunities to show off something I knew.   
  
"'I feel as if I dwell in the suburbs of your pleasure'," I complained bitterly, and while he laughed loudly, he didn't ask whose quote it was so I couldn't tell him about Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.   
  
I read furiously, seeking arcane references that would trip him up. I produced insignificant authors like potted plants, offering them up merely for their lack of readership. But he never rose to the bait, merely inquiring as to what I had liked about their work or what I felt was significant.   
  
I got to a point where I spent so much time proving my worth to him, I completely lost myself.   
  
"There's nothing original about me," I wept in his arms one day after Martin had delivered a particularly castigating review of my draft. "All I do is parrot other writers!" (Of course, I was parroting Martin there; he said, "All you do is parrot other writers, Tim!")  
  
He buried his lips in my hair and I wondered fleetingly if he might kiss me. Making love with him invariably made me feel better, as if I did have some value.   
  
"And how does that make you different from anybody else?" he asked softly.   
  
"They have original ideas!" I despaired.   
  
"Nonsense. 'Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief.' We all of us take other people's ideas and interpret them our own way and that is what makes us unique."  
  
"There's nothing unique about me," I grumbled, blowing my nose on his handkerchief. But I already felt better.   
  
He drew back a bit, arching his eyebrow in that nasty way before he said something scathingly sarcastic and his lip twitched as if it were all vastly entertaining to him. "And here I was just thinking that you are beyond a shadow of a doubt the most unique person I have ever known."  
  
I was left to ponder that on my own.


End file.
